Strange Circumstances
by Jadea
Summary: Dobby inadvertantly plays matchmaker. Slash, Harry/Ron
1. In Which Dobby Gets an Idea

Author: Jadea   
  


Summary: Dobby plays a matchmaker. Harry/Ron. Summer after 5th year.   
  


Notes: I *needed* to write something light and fluffy, and "Best Served Cold" isn't exactly sweet, happy material. So here goes.   
  


Dedication: To all you closet Harry/Ron shippers out there. You know who you are.   
  


Rating: Pg. I specifically edited out Ron's swearing. Absolutely *nothing* objectionable in this chapter.   
  


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"What?" Harry gasped. "They've got...they've got Ron?" 

"The thing Harry Potter would miss most, sir!" 

Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, U.S. edition, page 491   
  


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Harry Potter sir was not happy.   
  


Professor Dumbeldore had sent Dobby to talk to Harry Potter, to tell him that Mr. Harry Potter could not leave his relatives house, oh no, not leave, because then Mr. Harry Potter might be in danger. And Mr. Harry Potter could not be put in danger, no, never, because then the dark days would return, when the house elves would be imprisoned and tortured again, and Harry Potter was the only beacon of light, the only thing stopping the old evil days from returning. So even though Harry Potter sir wanted to leave his house on Privet Drive and go to his Wheezys, and even though Dobby wants Harry Potter sir to be happy--yes, happy, more then anything else in the world Dobby wants his Harry Potter to be happy--Dobby had to tell Harry Potter that he could not leave.   
  


And that made Harry Potter sir even more unhappy.   
  


Poor Harry Potter. He is so good, so noble, so selfless; powerful and great and kind, oh yes, kind to everyone, even to poor houseleves like Dobby, and it broke Dobby's heart to see the great wizard unhappy, yes, to see him hurt and alone, to see that he was unhappy and that it was Dobby and Dobby's news that made him unhappy; Dobby would never want to make Harry Potter unhappy...   
  


And then...   
  


Dobby had an idea.   
  


Mr. Harry Potter sir had stopped talking to Dobby; he was facing the wall, pretending to sleep, upset with Professor Dumbeldore's news. Upset with the news Dobby had brought. Maybe, since Dobby had made Harry Potter unhappy--not that Dobby wanted to!--maybe, Dobby could make Harry Potter happy again.   
  


Dobby wondered.   
  


What made Harry Potter happy?   
  


Why, his Wheezy, of course!   
  


Harry Potter's Wheezy made him happy; Dobby knows, Dobby saw Harry Potter, the great and glorious Harry Potter, smile at his Wheezy, saw Harry Potter laugh with him. Dobby knew that Harry Potter wanted to leave this house and go his Wheezy's house, filled with red-haired, freckled wizards. But Dobby could never take Harry Potter there, no, never, because Professor Dumbeldore said it wasn't safe.   
  


But if Dobby couldn't bring Harry Potter to his Wheezy...   
  


Maybe he could bring his Wheezy to Harry Potter?   
  


Then Harry Potter would be happy! Then Harry Potter would not be alone or unhappy; he would have his Wheezy! Then Harry Potter would be safe *and* happy, and Dobby would have helped Harry Potter!   
  


Dobby wondered if he should perhaps tell his idea to Harry Potter, but then decided not to. A surprise would make Harry Potter much happier.   
  
  
  


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"Ron, there's nothing we can do. Professor Dumbeldore says--"   
  


With a hard kick, Ron slammed the door to his room, cutting off his father's placating voice.   
  


Oh sure, it was easy for all of them--all the grownups, people like Professor Dumbeldore and McGonnagal, people like Snape and Percy and even his own parents--to say that it was better for Harry to stay at the Dursleys. Safer. They could preach to him until they were blue in the face, trying to convince him that it was for the best... but he would never agree with them. Never.   
  


They thought *they* knew what was best for Harry? Had *they* been there when Harry woke from his nightmares shuddering and sweating? Had *they* been there when Harry read the Daily Prophet, flinching at the headlines? Had *they* been there when Harry tried to draw away, distancing himself from Ron and Hermione in a thousand little ways until both of them ordered him to stop?   
  


Funny, Ron didn't *remember* them being there.   
  


And now his parents, his brothers, the entire bloody staff of Hogwarts, was telling him what was best for *his* best friend.   
  


And they were wrong. All of them.   
  


Snarling, Ron turned away from the door, flinging himself down hard enough on his bed to hear the frame creak. It wasn't right, it wasn't fair--   
  


"Wheezy!"   
  


He yelped, jerking himself upward so fast he nearly tumbled out of bed and onto the floor. Eyes darting across the room, silently cursing the fact that he had left his wand downstairs at the dinner table. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He didn't even go to the loo anymore without his wand, not at Hogwarts, not even here, but he'd been so mad with his parents...   
  


Enormous, glowing eyes appeared in the corner of his closet. He tensed, watching with wide eyes as the thing shifted, eyes blinking. The only thing he had ever seen with eyes that large had been--   
  


Oh, hell. Those bloody *monstrous* acromantualas in the forbidden forest. The clank of metal hangers jangling and whisper of clothes rubbing against each other sounded unnaturally loud in his ears as the...whatever it was...moved.   
  


Probably getting ready to pounce...   
  


Feeling his heart thud in his chest, eyes fixed on the glowing orbs, Ron's fingers felt their way across his bed, towards his night stand. The most lethal thing his fingers felt was a framed picture of him, Harry and Hermione at the Twins' graduation, just last month.   
  


Fighting back a surge of panic, Ron cursed his parents, Percy, and the stupid fight that had erupted at the dinner table. Most of all he cursed himself, leaving his wand on the table beside his half-finished desert. He was going to die because his brother was a complete prat...   
  


Swearing softly, Ron gripped the metal frame in tightly in his hand, preparing to chuck it at the creature with all his strength.   
  


"Wheezy!"   
  


With a quick bound, the creature leapt out of the shadows of the closet. Ron drew his arm back--and felt the frame slip through his fingers, glass shattering on the floor as he recognized the owner of the voice, and the eyes.   
  


"Dobby?"   
  


The house-elf bounced on his heels, grinning adoringly at Ron. He scowled back, raking a hand through his hair.   
  


"Dobby, what the hell are you doing? You almost gave me a heart attack; all I saw was an enormous pair of eyes in the back of my closet..."   
  


The Hogwarts house-elf looked crestfallen.   
  


"Dobby...Dobby is sorry, sir. Dobby would never, never harm Harry Potter's Wheezy, no, not ever. Dobby just wanted Harry Potter to be happy..."   
  


The small creature sniffed, wiping his nose with the sleeve of his jumper. The maroon jumper Ron recognized as the one *he* had given to Dobby almost two years ago. Along with the socks Harry had given him that same Christmas. No, that wasn't quite right. On his right foot, the House-elf wore what had been originally one of Harry's Uncles' smelly, ugly old socks. On the left foot was a violet sock Ron vaguely remembered tossing to Dobby at the same time he'd given him the maroon sweater.   
  


Fighting the urge to roll his eyes or smack himself for being scared of *Dobby*, of all creatures, Ron shook his head, biting back the guilt that rose in him at the sight of the pathetic house elf.   
  


"Look, Dobby, I'm sorry. You just...scared me a little, 'right? I wasn't expecting to see anyone in my room--"   
  


"Dobby is very, most abjectly sorry, Mr. Wheezy sir; Dobby would never, not in a million years, not if his own life depended on it, harm Harry Potter's Wheezy, no, never--"   
  


The little elf was fighting back sobs and Ron felt horrible, like he'd just bludgeoned a puffskein to death. He had little to no experience with house elves; it wasn't like the Weasley's could afford them, and he'd certainly hadn't wanted to make Dobby cry. Also, he really, really wanted to ask the elf to call him Ron instead of..what was it? 'Wheezy?'   
  


No, not quite. 'Harry Potter's Wheezy.' Besides the fact that the title made him feel like a stuffed toy of Harry's, he couldn't fight down the flush in his ears every time Dobby said it. But the elf might take that as another reprimand and try and strangle itself with the curtain, or throw itself out the window, or something.   
  


"Listen, Dobby--" He took a step towards the elf, words cutting off when he heard the 'crunch' of shattered glass.   
  


"Oh, sh-----." Thankful that Charlie had, at his request, placed an anti-profanity charm on the door to his room, Ron cursed for several minutes, saying many different words that would have gotten him in a great deal of trouble had his Mum heard them, knowing that an eavesdropper outside his door would only hear "aw, shucks!" and "blimey!"   
  


Forgetting about the dyslexic house elf perched in front of him, Ron bent down, extracting a rather mangled metal frame from the remaining shards of broken glass.   
  


"My picture. It's broke--Colin took it right before we left school, and I can't fix it--"   
  


In an eye blink, the elf was next to him, standing on top of a pile of blankets on Ron's rather untidy bed, peering intently at the wizarding photograph where Hermione, Harry, and even picture-Ron looked a little bit rumpled and more then a tad angry.   
  


"Dobby can fix it, sir! Dobby knows how!"   
  


Almost instantly, the frame in his hands began to warm, as if by an invisible fire. Ron dropped the frame with a startled cry, watching in amazement as the frame and picture simply floated before his eyes before, in a flash of light, it mended itself and turned, depositing itself neatly on its normal place on his nightstand.   
  


"Dobby, that was amazing! You don't even have a wand...how did you do that?"   
  


Shly, the house-elf blinked, smiling at Ron, obviously pleased by the boy's unaffected amazement.   
  


"Dobby is a house-elf, Dobby does not use a wand. Not here, not at Hogwarts."   
  


The mention of Hogwarts seemed to jolt the little elf, and its eyes widened, if that was at all possible. Quicker then Ron could react, Dobby reached out and grasped his hand, tugging at his arm desperately.   
  


"Please, Wheezy sir, you must come with Dobby, 'Tis very important. Harry Potter sir...he is sad. Professor Dumbeldore has told Dobby, and Dobby has just told Harry Potter, that Harry Potter cannot leave the Dursley's, no, not for his safety, and Harry Potter is not happy, Harry Potter is sad..."   
  


With an effort, Ron extracted his hand from Dobby's grip, breathing hard, barely resisting the urge to kick something.   
  


*They* had done it again.   
  


*They* knew what was best for Harry. By imprisoning him with his awful Muggle relatives. By shutting him off from the rest of Wizard society. By allowing him to anguish over the events of the past year. By subjecting him to that whalish bully of a cousin, that big bastard of an uncle, that bony horse-face of an aunt...   
  


To keep him safe, they said. To protect him, they said. To save Harry, they said. But it was all a bunch of tripe, *he* said. It wasn't to save Harry. It was to save The Boy Who Lived. The savior of the entire bloody wizarding world, who just happened to be Ron's best friend. The Boy Who Must Live to Fight Another Day, who also happened to have a weakness for fizzing whizbees. The famed Defeater of You Know Who, who snored like a hippgriff when he had a headcold. The Triwizard Tournament Champion, who had snorted pumpkin juice through his nose when Ron had done a dead-on imitation of Professor McGonnagal, only to turn around and discover the Transfiguration teacher standing directly behind him.   
  


Most of them didn't give a sickle about Harry. They only cared about The Boy Who Lived. What would they care that, after another summer with the Dursley's, it would take Ron and Hermione agonizing weeks to extract Harry from his shell? What did they care that Harry was unhappy, bloody *miserable*, so long as he was 'safe?'   
  


"Why! Why can't he come here? We *want* him here! He *belongs* here, where he's safe, where he's happy. He belongs here, with--"   
  


'With me' had been the words on the tip of his tongue, but he could not say those aloud, not to anyone, not even to Dobby.   
  


"With us."   
  


Fiercely, he glared around the room, feeling the helplesness wash over him. Harry was sad, Harry was hurting, Harry *needed* him, and he couldn't do anything. Except maybe send a lousy owl.   
  


Ignoring Dobby, his shoulders sagged and he collapsed on his bed, again feeling it creak ominously at his sudden weight. It was an old bed, and his feet stuck over the edge when he slept unless he curled in on himself, tucking his knees up under the covers. Not wanting to look at the probably-terrified house elf, Ron buried his face in his blankets, struggling to control himself.   
  


Somewhere in the back of his mind, the rational part of him acknowledged the necessity of Dumbeldore's actions. Above all, Harry must be safe, and Ron knew that. But he had never been one to allow such foolish things as logic to control his actions, and he sure as hell wasn't going to start now. Ron didnt give a knut about what was logical right now. All he knew was that Harry needed him, now, needed him badly, and he was utterly useless. Typical.   
  


Face still buried in the blankets, Ron shook his head, feeling the comforters rub against his cheeks and forehead. Unconsciously, his fingers clutched at the quilts, fighting back the hot lump in his throat. A little overhwlemed by the intensity of his feelings, Ron finally raised his head when he felt a small hand, patting his back comfortingly.   
  


"S'all right, Dobby." he croaked, rubbing his eyes with his fists. "I'm fine. Just worried...Harry, you know..."   
  


The little hand patted him again and Ron nearly burst out laughing, imagining the picture someone would see if they walked into the room at that instant--the red headed human boy, sixteen years old and over six feet tall, being comforted by the tiny house elf that didn't even come up to his knees. If Fred and George ever saw this, he'd never live it down. Hell, if his Mum ever saw this...   
  


Shrugging the hand away, Ron turned, giving Dobby a somewhat strained smile.   
  


"Thanks for telling me, Dobby. I'm not angry with you or anything; I just wish there was something I could do--"   
  


A brilliant smile lit up the house-elves face.   
  


"But there is! Wheezy must come with Dobby, sir!"   
  


"Listen, Dobby, my name is 'Ron.' Do you think--"   
  


But then the small hand that had been patting his back grapsed his arm and before he could say another word, a bright flash of light momentarily blinded him, a loud 'bang!' sounded in his ears, and they both disapeared.   
  
  
  
  
  


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Ok, so its not (overly) fluffy yet. But it will get there. I desperately needed to write something fluffy and happy and light. Next chapter should come fairly soon. Review, please. Writing Dobby's POV was kinda strange...   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. In Which Dobby Brings Harry A Surprise

Author: Jadea   
  


Disclaimer: If I were JKR, (which I'm not) I'd feel very sorry for her, because she's incredibly stressed about research papers and finals! Give her a break, professors! She's only got two hands!   
  


Ahem...   
  


Dedication: Aly Teima, because she incorporates history into her fics, which means I don't feel guilty for reading them when I should be doing homework.   
  


Rating: Pg, Pg-13   
  


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Harry was sulking.   
  


Maybe great wizarding heroes weren't supposed to sulk, but he didn't care. Right now he didn't feel particularly like a wizarding hero. He hadn't even finished his transfiguration homework for the summer. He'd been hoping to work on it at the Weasleys--listening to Ron whine about the workload next to him, hearing Mrs. Weasley bustling around the kitchen, loud explosions sounding from Fred and George's room.   
  


But Dobby's news had pretty much finished off that idea.   
  


Frowning, Harry burrowed farther under his covers, listening to the sound of his Uncle's snores in the next room. The House-elf had left, he knew; he had heard the 'bang' as Dobby disapparated.   
  


He knew it wasn't Dobby's fault, knew he hadn't been the one to sentence him to spend the rest of the summer in this hell with his relatives...but Dumbeldore's decision was still ringing in his ears. Not safe. Must stay at the Dursleys. For your own good...   
  


Frustrated, he punched his pillow, his fist leaving a dent in the soft fabric. For his own good, of course. Everything they did was for his own good. Sirius would tell him so, Dumbeldore would tell him so, even Hermione would smile sympathetically and nod, convinced that he had to stay at the Dursleys. The only person who would listen to him, *really* listen, understand without saying a word...well, that was Ron. And Ron was at the Weasleys, which was where Harry *wanted* to be, which was what had started this whole mess in the first place.   
  


The August night was hot and sticky, the humidity lingering in the air, and the blankets stuck uncomfortably to his skin. No amount of tossing and turning was helping, and he was considering getting up and accepting the inevitable--his transfiguration homework--when a loud 'bang' sounded uncomfortably close to his ear, followed by a squeal and a large thud. Wondering what on earth was going on, wondering why Dobby had returned, Harry flung the covers off and fumbled his glasses onto his face, gaping at the scene before him.   
  


At any other time, the sight of his best friend sprawled on the floor, a tiny house elf perched on his chest like a wrestler performing an incredible pin, would have sent him into gales of laughter. Ron looked like Hermione had just whopped him up side the head with her favorite book; Hogwarts: A History. Dobby's long fingered hands were clutched around Ron's wrist, and Harry noted with a strange clarity that the red-heads jeans were obvious hand-me-downs, with large holes in both knees and fraying cuffs at his ankles. But before Harry could do anything--and before Ron had even opened his eyes properly--he began to yell. Loudly.   
  


Ron had, at the best of times, a rather loud voice. It was, so far as Harry knew, a genetic trait for all Weasleys, inherent with their red hair and freckles. Even as Ron's words sounded loudly in his small room and Harry fought back a wince, hearing the abrupt cut-off of his Uncle's snores, he couldn't deny the warmth that spread through him at the sound of Ron's voice.   
  


"DOBBY! What in the FU--"   
  


Frantic, Harry half-jumped, half-fell out of his bed, knocking Dobby aside and lunging forward, clapping his hand over Ron's mouth, pressing a finger to his own lips with the other. Blue eyes glared up at him above his hand, Ron's body still sprawled on his back on the floor of the room.   
  


Hoping against hope that Uncle Vernon would simply roll over and go back to sleep, Harry hissed:   
  


"Shut *up* Ron! Do you know what--"   
  


"BOY! STOP MAKING THAT AWFUL RACKET--"   
  


Ron's entire body jerked in surprise at Uncle Vernon's bellow.   
  


"IF YOU DONT SHUT UP RIGHT NOW--"   
  


Harry froze, kneeling beside his muffled best friend. With a jerk, Ron wrenched Harry's hand away from his mouth, fingers curled around Harry's wrist. Gingerly, he propped himself up on his elbows, arching an eyebrow at Harry, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.   
  


"He sounds like a hippogriff in heat."   
  


Now it was Harry's turn to glare, listening for the creak of the bed frame, the whine of the floorboards as Uncle Vernon got out of bed. His thoughts raced. How on earth was he going to explain this? A house-elf and a boy wizard?   
  


Oh, hell.   
  


The puffing, blowing snorts signalled that Uncle Vernon was getting up; the floorboards creaked.   
  


Just the idea of what Uncle Vernon would do to him if he spotted Dobby--or worse, Ron--spurred Harry into action.   
  


"GO! Dobby, get in the closet, NOW!"   
  


Moving so quickly that even Harry could barely see him, the House-Elf darted inside Harry's closet, shutting the door.   
  


"BOY!"   
  


The slight tremors in the ground told him that Vernon was just outside his door.   
  


"Ron, get in the bed!"   
  


The other boy was way too tall to fit in Harry's closet or beneath his desk. The space between the bed and the floor was far too narrow; the idea of simply sticking Ron in a corner and hoping Vernon wouldn't see him had crossed his mind, but Ron's tell-tale hair was bright, even in the dark room. Short of dangling him outside the window, this was their only option.   
  


"BOY! I HAVE A MEETING EARLY TOMORROW MORNING--"   
  


Hearing the sound of the locks being drawn back, Ron's eyes widened and he dove at the bed, pushing himself into the corner, against the wall . Frantically, Harry tossed the covers over him, hoping desperately that in the dark, Vernon would just mistake Ron for a big pile of blankets.   
  


The-pile-of-blankets-that-was-Ron was shaking; Harry barely caught a few muffled strains of laughter as he got in the narrow bed, half sitting and half lying on the-pile-of-blankets-that- was-Ron, and just managed to hiss "Shut up." before the door crashed open, revealing Uncle Vernon.   
  


Correction. Revealing a royally pissed off Uncle Vernon.   
  


Harry sat up in bed, brushing some loose strands of hair out of his eyes, trying to look completely innocent. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the closet door slip open, just a bit...   
  


"Why are you making all that racket?"   
  


The-pile-of-blankets-that-was-Ron was shaking harder now; Harry could barely hear his best friends stifled laughs over Vernon's rough growl. In what he hoped was a completely normal move (and not one that would cause Vernon to suspect anything) Harry propped his back up against the headboard, and kicked the-pile-of-blankets-that-was-Ron. Not *too* hard, though.   
  


"WELL?"   
  


//He really does sound like a hippogriff in heat.// Harry thought, and bit back his own laughter. Laughing right now would be a very, very bad thing. Worse, it would be a very *stupid* thing. So long as Uncle Vernon stayed in the doorway, it was ok. But if he pissed off his Uncle anymore--which laughing at him would most *certainly* do--Vernon wouldn't stay in the doorway. He'd cross the room and drag Harry out of the bed. Which would also drag Ron out of the bed. The image of him attempting to explain the presence of a sixteen year old wizard--correction, a sixteen year old *male* wizard--in his bed in the middle of the night flashed through his mind, followed almost instantly by a vivid image of his own name on a tombstone.   
  


"I--I'm sorry. I must have had a bad dream. Did I say something?"   
  


Puffs and pants, Uncle Vernon sounded a little like the Hogwarts Express chugging up a high hill. The-pile-of-blankets-that-was-Ron had not stopped shaking, but at least it was silent now.   
  


"Did you say something? You screamed the whole ruddy house down! I have a meeting tomorrow with some very important businessmen, and I need a good nights sleep so that I can make enough money to take care of ungrateful useless *freaks* like *you.*"   
  


A soft hiss cut through the air of the room, and Harry winced. Ron had heard that. Moving slowly, hoping that Uncle Vernon wouldn't notice, Harry began to inch over closer to the wall. He was *not* going to have Ron lose his temper and try to attack Uncle Vernon. There was no way his whale of an uncle was going to lay one finger on his best friend, not if Harry could help it. And if the only way to restrain Ron was to pin him to the bed with his own weight, fine.   
  


"I'm sorry. I won't do it again. I didn't--"   
  


Somehow, the he forced the words out, making them slip past his gritted teeth. He *loathed* apologizing to Uncle Vernon, but he didn't dare anger him further...   
  


"If I hear one more peep out of this room, I'm selling that ruddy owl of yours to the taxidermist. Understand?"   
  


Before Harry could reply, Vernon left, slamming the door behind him so hard the headboard at his back shook. It was a damn good thing he left; at that exact moment, Ron's rather tangled red head appeared, scowling fiercely at the door.   
  


"That son of a..." Harry arched his eyebrows; Ron's vocabulary had improved since their last day at Hogwarts.   
  


The closet door swung completely open, and Dobby darted over to them, large eyes wide.   
  


"Mr. Harry Potter sir--"   
  


"Shhhhhhh!" Harry placed his index finger over his lips, glancing back and forth between Ron and Dobby. Ron was still describing his Uncle in rather less then flattering terms, but at least he was doing it softly.   
  


"Dobby, I can't make any noise! You heard my Uncle; we have to be quiet--"   
  


The House Elf nodded, bat-like ears flopping.   
  


"Dobby can help, Harry Potter! Dobby can put a silencing charm on Harry Potter's room!"   
  


The house elf clapped, and a bright beam of light flashed through the room. Ron and Harry blinked; Dobby simply stood there, looking very pleased with himself. Next to Harry, still tangled up in the blankets, Ron arched an eyebrow at the elf.   
  


"You sure that worked, Dobby?"   
  


"Oh yes, Mr. Wheezy Sir. Most positive. See?"   
  


Dobby leapt up on Harry's desk, scattering his schoolbooks, and began to pound on the wall, calling out in his shrill voice, but there was no change in the rythem of Uncle Vernon's snores.   
  


"Dobby, please, SHUT UP! We get the idea!"   
  


If Dobby's pounds and shrieks hadn't woken up the Durlseys', Ron's bellow most certainly would have. But none of them stirred.   
  


Perched on the desk, Dobby smiled at both of them.   
  


"Dobby must go; Dobby must be back at Hogwarts. Professor Dumbeldore will want to speak with Dobby; Goodbye, Harry Potter! Goodbye, Harry Potter's Wheezy! Dobby--"   
  


Harry shook his head frantically. "Dobby, you can't leave now. What about Ron?"   
  


The House-elf blinked, an uncertain expression flickering across his face.   
  


"Dobby, you can't leave! I can't apparate, I don't know how; my parents will kill me if they come up to my room and find me gone, they've been super-protective all summer anyway--"   
  


The other boy's words broke off, a flush of color spreading through his cheeks. Ron dropped his eyes, and Harry felt the familiar sense of guilt bloom in his stomach.   
  


"Anyway..." Ron trailed off, then looked at the house elf. "I have to get back to the Burrow, Dobby. If you leave, there's no way I can get home..."   
  


He said the final words almost apologetically, and Harry forced himself not to think about how nice it would be to leave the Dursleys and go with Ron.   
  


"Dobby doesn't understand."   
  


Harry sighed, rubbing his temples with his fingertips. The house-elf sounded almost hurt.   
  


"Harry Potter's Wheezy does not want to stay here? He wants to leave Harry Potter alone, and unhappy?"   
  


Ron's eyes widened, and he struggled to free himself from the tangle of blankets. Fighting back a blush on his own face, Harry responded.   
  


"It's not that, Dobby. I'm sure Ron wants to stay here--"   
  


"--'Course I do, Harry--"   
  


"but he certainly can't stay here until we go back to Hogwarts. You saw my Uncle. You have to take him home."   
  


He tried to smile as he said it, but could tell by Ron's expression that he wasn't fooling him. For a moment, Harry wished fiercely that Dobby had never brought Ron over. It had been almost bearable, living with the Dursleys before. The days had sunk into an endless monotonous stream that he got through by waiting for the start of term. Distance and time had dulled the desire for his friends, but Ron's presence, however brief, brought the longing back. Sharply.   
  


Arms trapped by the tangled blankets, Ron smiled at him, the half grin that made his blue eyes light up.   
  


"S'all right, Harry. It was kind of fun, being kidnapped by the mad house-elf, landing on your hard wooden floor, being slammed in the corner, listening to your big ape of an uncle, suffocating in your nasty, smelly blankets--"   
  


Harry lunged at him, ignoring the other boys surprised yelp as he fell back against the bed, and attacked. With his arms immobilized by the blankets, he couldn't fight back. Most of the time, Ron's superior weight and height gave him the advantage, and Harry wasn't going to miss this opportunity.   
  


Fred and George had been only too happy to tell Harry just how tickelish their little brother was.   
  


Ron was laughing, twisting and squirming away from Harry's hands, but he couldn't get away without the use of his arms. Sitting on the other boys knees, Harry's hands danced up Ron's sides, making his best friend laugh in one breath and swear in the next. Color was flooding Ron's face, his freckles dissapearing in the flush of color, and Harry was laughing himself. Pinning Ron to the bed with one hand, he tickled Ron's stomach, feeling his friend's body jerk underneath him. Gasping for breath, Harry demanded:   
  


"Say 'Uncle.'"   
  


Ron shook his head, laughing so hard tears were slipping out of the corners of his eyes. His hair, longer than when they had left Hogwarts, was sticking straight up, contrasting sharply with the stark white of Harry's pillowcase.   
  


The other boy was kicking now; Harry shifted his position so that he was straddling Ron's waist and attacked him again, tickling his neck, which was particularly sensitive.   
  


"Say 'Uncle.'"   
  


Still laughing, Ron gasped something, trying to pin Harry's fingers on his neck.   
  


"What?"   
  


Flinging his head away from Harry's fingers, Ron laughed, drawing deep breaths with each word.   
  


"'Hippogriff in heat.' There, are you happy?"   
  


Laughing, Harry drew his hands back, pushing his glasses up his nose with his index finger. Watching as the color in Ron's face, which looked like he had just drunk a liter of pepper-up potion, cooled down. Still pinned in the blankets--tangled worse then ever, in fact--Ron slowly got his breath back, mock glaring at Harry before laughing again.   
  


"Fine, fine. You got me, you great prat. But only because of these ruddy blankets. You better watch out, the next time I get you down..."   
  


Harry smirked at him, mentally reminding himself not to let Ron corner him for a long time. Some of the tricks Fred and George had played on Ron, Ron was more than willing to play on Harry...   
  


"Dobby was right."   
  


Startled, Harry tore his eyes away from Ron. Dobby was still perched on top of his desk, only a few feet away, a brilliant grin on his face as he watched them. Clearing his throat, Harry risked a quick glance at Ron. He'd...well, he'd forgotten that Dobby was even there. From the pink showing in Ron's ears, he had, too.   
  


"What--" Harry cleared his throat. "What were you right about, Dobby?"   
  


The House elf bounced up and down on his toes and smiled at them, but refused to answer the question.   
  


"Dobby must get back to Hogwarts; Professor Dumbeldore will want Dobby. But Dobby can return, yes, before dawn, so that he can get Harry Potter's Wheezy back home."   
  


Eyes widening, Harry glanced at Ron, who had finally succeeded in extracting one arm from the blankets. Brow furrowed, Ron ran his free hand through his already messy hair, standing it on end in soft little spikes, obviously considering Dobby's words.   
  


"Yeah...yeah, that should work. Mum and Dad probably wont bug me...if you can bring me back before dawn, Dobby, that would be perfect..."   
  


Ron looked up at him, and Harry grinned.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


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Whew! Flufftastic! Next chapter...dunno. Another "Best Served Cold" first, I think. Please tell me what you think; writing fluff is just...so...weird...   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



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